


Fire in Rain

by doublejoint



Series: peachtober 2020 [22]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27170279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: They’re giving him an excuse to slack off, not that he really needed one.
Relationships: Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Portgas D. Ace
Series: peachtober 2020 [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953295
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54





	Fire in Rain

**Author's Note:**

> #peachtober day 22: Rain

The rain makes Marco feel sluggish, makes him need twice the coffee to really wake up, makes him have to ask for things twice, lose a step here or there. It’s a good thing that the rain usually comes with fog and mist out on the ocean, that they’re generally alone, far out at what has always felt like the edges of the world. (Since he was a kid, since he could barely read a map, five chief navigators ago, it had felt that way--and despite how much he knows, the feeling hasn’t left, as if the edges of the map have been softened and blurred by the dampness and the waters are uncharted.) He’s always taken the jabs about a phoenix and fire not working well with the water in stride, has always thought it more superstitious than anything else (he’s flown through rain before, not fun but doable).

Ace, though, proves there’s a pattern, if nothing else. Even way back when Ace was still putting up resistance to the idea of joining them, he’d grown more subdued in the rain, squaring his shoulders against the sea spray on his bare skin, eyes half-lidded, but refusals and rebuttals snarled in the same way as they always were. And now, knowing Ace, having had Ace fall asleep on top of him pretty much every way Marco would have thought possible and then some, Marco thinks he can’t really be surprised by it anymore, but he is. Some days, Ace point-blank refuses to get out of bed, burrowing further under the covers, despite still feeling warm to the touch. It’s pretty cute, but there’s also stuff Ace needs to do, and stuff Marco needs to do that he can’t just sit in bed and half-listen to Ace whine at him while he does (and eventually get dragged back down under the covers with him, too easy in this weather).

So he leaves the covers on Ace’s side of the bed and gets up, later than he should but in time for extra coffee, even if he can’t drink it with his feet up and reading the newspaper. He’ll read Pops’s medical charts instead, sitting just under the overhang while the mist seeps over the railing and onto the deck, always fading back into the air before it reaches him.

The list of supplies they need to stock up on always grows, medicine and food mostly, and then equipment and stuff for maintenance, but things get more and more expensive and need more and more work. There was a ship before this one, Marco remembers, but it’s been so many years, and like the crew, like all the divisions and their captain, she keeps going. There’s no better day than a rainy one to work on her pipes and the gas lines into and out of her stoves, and though the fog dulls sound, he can still hear the sound of metal on metal and the groaning and shouting of his more mechanically-inclined crewmates.

Marco suppresses a yawn. The coffee’s gone lukewarm and he’s only halfway through it.

“Let me get that.”

Ace’s voice is a little hoarse from sleep, his hair still rumpled. He’s just placed the hat on top of it, and it should look sloppier than it does--but, Marco supposes, that’s Ace. He watches as Ace places his hand on top of the mug, fingertips fading into flames, until steam rises from the space between his fingers. The handle of the mug is still cold when he hands it back to Marco, but the coffee’s warm again, and the flames still run down Ace’s palm as if he’d been holding an ice cream cone. It’s a neat trick, but Ace looks too proud of himself every time he does this even though they all see him do it twice a day, at least--that self-satisfaction is still very cute, Marco decides.

“Don’t set the paper on fire.”

Ace sighs, draping his arms over Marco’s shoulders. 

“Thank you,” says Marco.

“Anytime.” 

The brim of Ace’s hat folds against his cheek. They need more saline; they always need more saline. They should have figured out how to make it from the ocean water surrounding them by now, Marco thinks, not for the first time. 

“Hey.”

Marco doesn’t need to look at Thatch; he’s going to come and sit on the table again. He does, leaning back against it.

“Ace, my toast.”

Ace holds out his hand, standing up straight and getting his weight off Marco’s shoulders and Thatch deposits two slices of bread in it; Ace promptly shoves one in his mouth and holds the other between his fingers, scorching lines into it.

“That wasn’t for you.”

“Ask nicely next time,” says Ace, in the middle of chewing loudly, and--this can definitely afford to wait until after lunch, when Pops gets up.

Marco doesn’t really have a choice, does he? Thatch is sitting on the inventory folders, anyway, dropping toast crumbs everywhere. They’re giving him an excuse to slack off, not that he really needed one. They’ll be out of the fog in a day or so, maybe less, fighting and working and partying as if all of their veins have been injected with waterproof fire, but today can be slow. Marco’s not ready to write it off all the way, though; he still needs to get some of this done, at some point. Maybe. He yawns. 

He could go to sleep right now, in a chair on deck, and he’d regret it (he’d be sore and uncomfortable; Ace would fall asleep in his lap; someone would prank them both). Ace grabs the mug of coffee from Marco’s hand and gulps half of it down. Thatch stands up from the table. 

“Get a break while you still can,” he says, with a wave. 

The coffee’s cooling off again. Marco is pretty fucking tired, and the lingering smell of burnt toast and wet wood aren’t doing anything to help.

He lets Ace lead him back to bed, face buried in another chart he’s only sort-of reading, and won’t remember once his head hits the pillow.


End file.
